


Brother Mine

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Holmescest potential, M/M, Mycroft is the best, Other, Sherlock is slow for a genius, The Final Problem spoilers kind of, mylock, the holmes brothers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-26 21:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15671691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: “Oh for heaven’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation as he looked at the front door.The knocker had been straightened. Mycroft was here.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So after dipping my toes into the ocean of the love for Mylock/ Holmescest looks like I am in for the full trip around the world on this most gorgeous ship of them all :) Comments are so very welcome ! It is all written up but being posted serially so minor edits can be made, so don't worry if you fear WIPs. This is complete.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation as he looked at the front door.

The knocker had been straightened. _Mycroft was here_.

He felt a stab of pain somewhere deep inside. It was not quite ‘pain’ pain but it _hurt_ and it wasn’t really anything else he could name. He had yet to deduce what it was precisely, but he knew that he never felt this for anyone else.

He went up the stairs, impatiently tugging his scarf off and ready to fling the door of the flat open. As he charged up the stairs he could smell that spicy cologne his brother favoured. It gave him yet another twist in the gut. It made him irritable, itchy, frustrated.

He had no idea why.

And by the time he actually faced him, sitting there, elegant and put together, lips pursed in what was meant to be a smile, he was ready to yell and throw things. He snipped at him and made his violin screech because he didn’t want to stamp his feet and roll on the floor in a tantrum which is actually what he felt like doing.

He had also recognized that as much as he _hated_ seeing Mycroft in his flat, he hated _even more_ the pit that opened up in his chest when he saw him leave.

Why?? WHY??!

There were no clues, no hints, no memories. Nothing. There was no explanation for these things….…feelings? Were they feelings? Emotions?

No. NO. He didn’t do those things. He wasn’t supposed to succumb to them. In fact Mycroft had taught him that.

_Emotions are a chemical defect brother mine._

_Death comes to us all._

_Caring is not an advantage._

_Alone protects us._

_***********************************_

Frustrating as their real life encounters were for Sherlock he knew that whenever he was troubled or in danger his brother appeared. In person as well as in his Mind Palace.

Cool and collected as ever. Unflappable. Brilliant beyond his own genius abilities.

Always there to answer the most difficult question, to analyse the most twisted facts. To offer the most elegant solutions with a mild arch of one eyebrow that said _Obvious, Brother mine_.

That thing he said. ‘ _Brother mine_.’ It bothered him.

It made him feel things which always stayed at the periphery of his consciousness. Soft shadowy whispers of something beckoned him but he couldn’t see enough to follow. There was always something warm glowing in the distance which looked tempting. Very tempting.

It seemed to offer the promise of comfort and safety…. even peace.

But he couldn’t find the way to go there.

It was like Alice’s garden in Wonderland. The more he looked for it, the further it seemed to recede.

It drove him crazy sometimes and he had to play the violin for hours before his Mind Palace opened up some rooms where he could sit quietly and have some kind of tranquillity.

.

.

He didn’t know why he felt the _need_ to, in fact the positively _burning desire_ to annoy his brother. But he was aware that this desire took the edge off an even deeper desire which scared him a little.

He also wanted to hurt him. He would see himself sometimes, larger than life, shouting and crying while a smaller Mycroft cowered beneath him, begging forgiveness. This dream always left him disturbed and he acted out on those days, doing things like the street chase which he knew would show up on his brother’s surveillance cameras saying FUCK OFF, or teasing him about his weight (when in fact the evidence in front of his eyes showed him an elegant and suave man without a single extra ounce on him) or turning up at the Buckingham Palace in only his sheet.

He would never ever let Mycroft know this but when he saw him all put together, not a hair out of place, not a thought out of line, coolly appraising him and all the other ‘goldfish’, always at least twenty steps ahead of anything they might say or do, he felt like just going up to him and mussing his hair up, ripping his perfectly tailored coat off him and throwing it on the floor in a heap and pulling his tie off and ………but his imagination usually stopped him there.

He knew there was something more he wanted to do but his mind wouldn’t allow him to process it.

He screeched the violin some more when that happened. He wanted to annoy him. He wanted to paint over that perfection with his own chaos and drama. He wanted to trample all over the pristine snowfield and leave great stomping footprints on it. He wanted to take that impossibly balanced house of cards and scatter it all in every direction.

He felt like he was the waves crashing against a rock. They recede, they return, they crash and when they are done with their drama, they are murmuring and lapping at the edges of the rock and the rock just smiles. Eventually all that pounding will cost them both as the rock is slowly turned to sand.

But still the waves crash because that is what they do.

And still the rock stands there because that is what it will always do.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s secretly pleased to see you underneath all that ...”
> 
> “Sorry – which of us?” Mycroft had asked Mrs. Hudson with a sour expression.
> 
> “Both of you.” She had replied as she left the room.

Of course he knew Mycroft had his back. Every time.

Every.

Single.

Time.

And oh _HOW_ he resented it because it meant he had needed rescuing so many times.

Obligation. Brotherly duties.

_Quid pro quo Brother mine._

He knew that when he planned the Fall he had to trust Molly and Mycroft to make sure that the landing didn’t kill him and that he could continue to survive his mission. As he expected and trusted, Molly rose to the occasion remarkably and put herself and her job on the line for him.

But Mycroft went above and beyond and actually entered the prison where he was being held and managed to rescue him under the noses of his captors. He had done that also coolly, in an almost laidback way, expressing disinterest and perhaps even some boredom. Three hours to learn Serbian while Anthea got his outfit together and voila, he pulled Sherlock out of the rabbit’s hat.

After he came back they had sparred in the living room at 221 B. They had played a game. It was almost like being back at home as children, when they had spent every waking hour in each other’s company. Sherlock usually hanging onto every word said by his beloved older brother who seemed to know everything. Who was so fascinatingly knowledgeable and so happy to teach him and answer his endless questions.

Who took care of him and comforted him and loved him.

Loved him.

_He had, hadn’t he…… back then._

And his little brother had loved him back. Deeply and infinitely.

_When had they stopped? Why had they stopped?_

_._

_._

That day they had played Operation and Mycroft had lost. Sherlock had been so gleeful at that.

“Oopsie!” he had said. Can’t handle a broken heart – how _very_ telling.”

Mycroft had promptly retorted “Don’t be smart”.

Sherlock had reminded his older brother that he had made him think he was an idiot.

Mycroft confirmed, “ _Both_ of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on ’til we met other children. If _you_ seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what _real_ people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish.”

Sherlock had challenged him, “Yes, but I’ve been away for two years.”

Mycroft was mystified. “So?”

He had shrugged and said “Oh, I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a ... goldfish”.

Mycroft had looked appalled at this suggestion.

********************************************

Somehow he had been reluctant to let Mycroft leave that day and had challenged him to play a game of deductions, with that silly hat. Mrs Hudson had come in with tea and with that uncanny perception of hers had said what neither of them had been able to.

“He’s secretly pleased to see you underneath all that ...”

“Sorry – which of us?” Mycroft had asked with a sour expression.

_“Both_ of you.” She had replied as she left the room.

And then they had challenged each other to deduce everything they could about the woollen hat and he had felt something bubbling up inside him. He had missed this, this battle of wits with the only person on this planet who could match him (grudgingly he accepted would even be better than him.)

That thought irritated him and he felt he had to jab Mycroft with something. He pointed out that his brother had missed the hat wearer’s isolation.

Mycroft had said “I don’t see it. Maybe he just doesn’t mind being different. He doesn’t necessarily have to be isolated.”

Sherlock had looked at him dis-believingly.

_“_ I’m not lonely, Sherlock.” he had said finally.

_How would he know?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was someone in the shadows of his Mind Palace who was larger than life. Better than the best. Braver than the bravest.  
> Someone who loved him more fiercely and possessively that any other power on earth could.

Much before the Fall, he had tried to show off his deducing skills to Irene (but more to antagonize Mycroft) and had ended up shamefaced when he realized that his older brother had been, as always, ten steps ahead of the game and that he had done more harm than good for Queen and Country. He had made up for it by unlocking the damn phone but the damage had been done. Another black mark against him in whatever logbook Mycroft probably maintained for him.

He wondered how come his older brother didn’t despise him for all his failings. For the drugs and the delinquency and the devastation he caused in all their lives.

Mycroft disapproved of course. He realized that. And he was often disappointed in his little brother (why did that thought make him feel slightly sick to his stomach……) but he had never ever left him defenceless. He had never ever disowned him, though despite his usefulness in solving complex crimes and legwork he could surely have cast him off in order to keep his job and sanity safe.

.

.

He hated that he couldn’t do anything on his own which would impress Mycroft and make him back off. Make him realize that he could manage without him. That he would in fact be _happy_ without him.

“I am not lonely Sherlock” echoed in his mind. The hesitation with which Mycroft had said it that day. The fleetingly lost look in his eyes just before he said it.

_Would he really be happy without his brother?_

He tried to imagine an alternate universe sometimes where he was alone.

No Mycroft.

No arguments. No challenges. No bickering. No surveillance.

But that came with No safety. No fun.

No one his equal.

No one his.

Isolated.

Alone.

Lonely.

_Ugh._

He jumped up and shot his gun at the wall.

Stop it he was telling his brain. BORING. SHUT UP. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR THIS.

.

.

He knew that whenever he saw Mycroft he would itch to have him react, to show something, anything. He hated the ‘Ice Man’ avatar he had to face because something in his mind kept hinting at things being different. Something so much warmer. Something which had offered him comfort on scary nights and indulgence on slow summer days. Something fond and attentive. Even devoted.

But what? How? When?

What clue was he missing? He always missed _some_ thing.

He would never _ever_ ask Mycroft and his own brain was proving to be a challenge. If he didn’t know better it felt like someone had overwritten a base program.

_Now he was sounding like one of the conspiracy theorists on John’s blog._

John. Who sassed Mycroft. Who took care of him and fed him and tolerated his madness and eccentricities. Maybe even enjoyed them.

Who had mourned him and then beaten him up when he came back from the Fall.

It’s a good thing they had moved on to a random kebab shop when John head- butted him. No CCTVs. Somehow Sherlock knew that if Mycroft had seen that, there would be no John in his life.

There may not even be any life in John.

He shuddered at the thought, not sure if he was pleased or terrified at this realization.

He had tried to remind John about them being ‘Two of us against the world’, but even as he said it, he felt a hollow space inside him and the words echoed off the cavern walls. He had already been one half of a pair. Two of them. Two parts of a whole. Two interpreters of the maladies of the world.

Later John had called him his best friend and asked him to be the Best Man at his wedding. He had stepped up to the challenge and had genuinely meant every word he said. John _was_ the best and bravest man he knew.

But somehow he could not call him his best friend.

There was someone in the shadows of his Mind Palace who was that and so much more.

Larger than life. Better than the best. Braver than the bravest.

Someone who loved him more fiercely and possessively that any other power on earth could.

His brain was overwhelmed by that flash of memory. And for some reason he had felt the need to call Mycroft and ask him if he was coming to the wedding. As a matter of urgency.

(He had deduced that his brother had been working out when he called him and felt a mild pang of guilt somewhere in the recesses of the complicated floor devoted to Mycroft in his Mind Palace, which had trapdoors, secret passages, reinforced vaults and all. He knew that it was his relentless teasing that had made his older brother so conscious about his weight.)

He had made it sound like a joke but somehow he was really anxious and wanted Mycroft to be there. Why was he panicking at the thought of John getting married? That he would be left alone? But he had always been alone………hadn’t he? (Had he ever been _really_ alone even before John turned up? Even before Greg looked out for him? He wondered now. Someone had always had his back……….hadn’t he? )

“Even at the eleventh hour it’s not too late, you know. Cars can be ordered, private jets commandeered.”

Mycroft had firmly refused. “No, Sherlock, I will not be coming to the “night do,” as you so poetically put it.”

Then he had added, “I suppose I’ll be seeing a lot more of you from now on. Just like old times”.

Sherlock had been deliberately obtuse and insisted that nothing was going to change, that he wasn’t ‘involved.’

His older brother had had the last word of course. “Enjoy not getting involved, Sherlock.”

_Had there been a hint of melancholy in his voice when he said that? Like he knew first-hand the exquisite pain and agony that you suffered when you got involved?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had written a list of course. He had promised Mycroft that there will always be a list.  
> He didn’t realize that the name of what he was most addicted to was not on the list although the entire list was in fact addressed to him.

He saw everyone else weaving the fabric of their lives with relationships. Warp and weft and in and out they moved. Falling in love, out of it, hatred, indifference, homicide, boredom, sorrow, regret. He saw the world as a steaming hot mess and himself, alone, looking at it from a distance.

Objective and emotionless.

Calculating. Deducing. Analysing.

But when he looked at that image closely he was never _really_ alone and there was always someone behind him.

Shadowy but right there. Someone who had his back.

He couldn’t see that face clearly but something hinted that it might be his older brother.

_Ugh_.

Why couldn’t he stay confined to his floor in the Mind Palace?! Why did he have to be _everywhere_?!

Watching. Seeing. Knowing.

He could even smell him there. A mixture of fine wool, aftershave, polished wood, leather. Burnt atoms in the wake of a lightning strike. A heady mix.

Powerful.

Protective.

Perfect.

His brain supplied these adjectives helpfully as he swatted them all away and contemplated shooting some more bullets into the wall.

_SHUT UP. JUST SHUT UP._

**************************************

Sometimes the noise got too much and the fire in his veins needed to be cooled and 7% would do just fine thank you. As the white solution hit the hot blood with a sizzle, there would be a few moments of peace. When he could drift along on the icebergs and feel everything fade out so he could focus on only what he wanted to solve.

Solution= solve. He giggled. _I am so witty brother. Did you hear that? Brother? Where are you? You always hear me don’t you? Wasn’t that funny?_

And of course Mycroft always heard him. These cries for attention. Pleas for help. He would always appear like a genie from the bottle and rescue him. He would stand by, leaning minimally on his umbrella, the weight of Queen and Country on one shoulder, balanced by the much heftier weight of worries for his brother on the other.

He hated it.

He hated that Mycroft could stand there, every hair in place, every crease perfect, shoes polished and waistcoat buttoned, because god forbid that civilizations should crumble if his older brother wasn’t holding it all up with his gentlemanly attire.

_Why did he look at him that way though?_ A mixture of helpless sorrow? Something tragic foretold? Something he couldn’t bear to see nor bear to look away from?

Like a train wreck in action.

_Yes, that is what the expression on his brother’s face reminded him of_ thought Sherlock as he drifted away one more time.

He had written a list of course. He had promised Mycroft that there will always be a list.

He didn’t realize that the name of what he was most addicted to was not on the list although the entire list was in fact addressed to him.

All the others on the list were merely poor substitutes for what he craved but couldn’t have.

Didn’t even know it was his to have.

 

***************************************

Rehabilitation. Defined as ‘the action of restoring something that has been damaged, to its former condition’.

 

His brother sent him for rehab. To restore him to his former condition.

But why was he damaged? Should he ask him that? Was he in fact damaged?

Perhaps this broken state was his default and poor Mycroft was trying to impose perfection on chaos.

Like trying to smooth over an earthquake with some yoga mats.

What if this was as good as he could get? Always on the side of angels but never one of them.

 

He often wondered which side his brother was on…… but he knew the answer even before he wondered.

 

Mine……………... Always mine.

**************************************

_‘Be seeing a lot more of you from now on.’_

Why did Mycroft sound as though he was actually looking forward to it??

When he had come back from the Fall and had asked his brother about goldfish, Mycroft had looked embarrassed.

_Why was that? Because he had someone? Was it someone he knew? Could he deduce it? But who could it be?_ No one could match his big brother in intelligence. He himself came the closest and even he wasn’t quite a match.

At Christmas that year when they were smoking outside the cottage, he had been his usual bratty self and tattled to Mummy when she caught them. That had been funny. The British Government--terrified of being caught smoking by Mummy.

But later Mycroft had taken the very air out of his lungs by saying “Your loss would break my heart.”

_What had THAT been about??_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not in the face, though, please. I’ve promised my brain to the Royal Society.” Mycroft had said

Eventually the entire tragic and deadly saga of Eurus had unravelled all around them and they had been swept along, ripped apart and dashed around at the edge of that tsunami.

_Emotional context dear brother_ she had taunted him.

He and John had planned to frighten Mycroft to get him to confess about the existence of his sister but when he remembered later that his older brother had in fact been watching their own childhood videos, alone, smiling fondly, he had felt again that sharp pain inside him.

Memories seemed to emerge of himself as child and a safe place where he felt loved. So loved.

_Stop it_ , he told his brain. _Don’t come in the way of my deductions. I need to solve this._

Eurus had led them through the seven circles of hell and when they reached the Final Problem, he had found himself with a gun in his hand and John and Mycroft in front of him.

_Choose one of them_ Eurus had commanded.

And then Mycroft had done the un-thinkable. He had not only stepped up to be sacrificed, but even under those circumstances tried to protect his little brother from hurting by insulting John and wanting to make Sherlock angry enough to _want_ to kill his brother.

“Not in the face, though, please. I’ve promised my brain to the Royal Society.” Mycroft had said. “I suppose there is a heart _somewhere_ inside me. I don’t imagine it’s much of a target but ...... why don’t we try for that? Goodbye….Brother Mine.”

As soon as Mycroft said that, and the tenderness with which he had looked at him, something hidden deep in the catacombs of his Mind Palace had been unlocked and he was flooded with a sea of light.

In an instant his entire childhood came back.

Redbeard. Joy.

Eurus. Hurt.

Mycroft. Love. Always love.

That itching, the frustration, the need to rebel, the pain at the sight of his brother, the deeper pain whenever he walked out, were all mixed signals his brain was sending from a Mind Palace restructuring that was trying to break out.

Like poets see the universe in a drop of water, Sherlock saw his entire life in that split second. Like a divine revelation, like a supernova exploding inside his brain, he suddenly felt the unbearable lightness of his being.

And here in this seventh circle of hell, he was offered a glimpse of what heaven could look like.

Immersed in love.

Unconditional. Embracing. Limitless.

The pain had been desire. The ache had been longing.

The desire for attention had been the unrequited love.

The drugs had been a poor substitute for a deeper craving.

The fog had been caused by Mycroft re-writing memories to save him from what Eurus had done and the sorrow he saw in his older brother’s eyes had been the realization that he had also inadvertently wiped out his own love.

Various moments from the last year all tumbled down around him, whispering, echoing, reminding.

“I will always be there for you.”

“Your loss would break my heart”.

“Seeing more of you”.

“Like the old times.”

 “I am not lonely.”

“Brother mine.”

 

“Brother mine.”

 

“Brother mine.”

 

They echoed around his head. Finally the veil had been pierced.

 

And he looked at Mycroft and knew exactly where to aim if he wanted to shoot at his heart.

 

He turned the gun and pointed it at himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what my muse led me to ! Sorry for the angst....  
> I do have another one in the works which I will get to finishing and posting soon. If you want to read more, check out something I wrote earlier which is more about the Quartet but does include the brothers of course. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15092897/chapters/34996673

**Author's Note:**

> All dialogues written with reference to Ariane De Vere’s fabulous transcripts.


End file.
